All Those Things We Never Said

by Marc Levy

  “I think I’ll stay here a little while.”

  “With your squirrels?”

  “Yes, with my squirrels.”

  He kissed her on the forehead, took a few steps back, and waved goodbye as he turned and made his way back down the tree-lined path.

  “Adam?” Julia called after him.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s a shame you have a meeting. I really would have liked to, I don’t know . . .”

  “Me too, but the two of us haven’t had much luck these past few days.”

  Adam blew her a kiss.

  “Gotta run. Call me when you get to Vermont, okay?”

  Julia nodded, her words suddenly stuck in her throat.

  “Well? How did it go?” asked Anthony, obviously delighted to see his daughter walk back through the door.

  “Couldn’t have gone much better.”

  “Why the long face, then? You look like you came straight from a funeral. Better late than never, I suppose . . .”

  “God, I wonder. Could it be because I just lied to the man I love for the first time?”

  “First time since yesterday. Or, if you’d rather, we can chalk yesterday up as a false start and say it didn’t count.”

  “No, you’re right! That makes two betrayals in two days! And of course he’s being extra sensitive and just letting me go, no questions asked. In the taxi on the way back, I felt like . . . the kind of woman I always swore I would never become.”

  “Let’s not exaggerate.”

  “Oh, no? What could be more revolting than lying to somebody who’s being trusting enough not to ask any questions?”

  “Being so caught up in your work that you’re blind to the other person’s life?”

  “My God, the nerve! That, coming from you?”

  “Yes, as you note, it’s coming from somebody who knows what he’s talking about. I think the car is downstairs. Let’s not dawdle. With all the security checks, we’ll spend more time in the airport than we will on the plane.”

  While Anthony took their bags downstairs, Julia looked around her apartment. Before leaving, she turned the photo of her father on the mantel to face the wall, then closed the door behind her.

  An hour later, the limo pulled up outside the terminal at JFK.

  “We could have just taken a taxi,” said Julia, looking through her window at the planes parked on the tarmac.

  “Why sacrifice comfort? You have to admit how nice this is. Besides, I found my credit cards at your apartment and we may as well use them before they’re canceled. From what I gather, you don’t have much interest in your inheritance, so allow me to blow the whole thing on your behalf. Believe me, once you kick the bucket, it really is a thrill to spend the fortune you worked and slaved your whole life to accumulate . . . just one more perk. This really is an unprecedented opportunity, when you think about it. And stop it with all the gloom and doom. You’ll see Adam again in a few days, and you’ll be even more in love. Until then, why not make the most of your time with your father? How long has it been since we went on vacation together?”

  “I was seven. Mom was still alive. She and I ended up spending the whole vacation at the pool, while you were crammed in a phone booth making work calls,” Julia replied, getting out of the limo.

  “Well, it wasn’t my fault cell phones hadn’t been invented yet,” grumbled her father as he opened his own door and stepped out.

  The international terminal was packed. Anthony rolled his eyes and went to the end of a long line of passengers that snaked its way to the ticket counter. Later, with boarding passes in hand as the precious reward for their patience, the waiting began anew at the security checkpoint.

  “All this hassle really spoils the pleasure of traveling. Look how irritated everyone is. And who could blame them for being impatient? Standing like this for hours, hauling around kids, chasing down restless toddlers who can’t possibly sit still for very long to begin with. And for what? Like anyone really suspects that woman in front of us is hiding explosives in her baby food? Dynamite applesauce, a Molotov cocktail out of a juice box? I don’t think so.”

  “Believe me, anything’s possible.”

  “Oh, come on. A bit of common sense is all I’m asking for. Think of the English, sitting down for tea during the Blitz!”

  “Under falling bombs?” whispered Julia, embarrassed that Anthony was talking so loudly. “After all these years, you’re still such a complainer. And what if I told the security officer that the man I’m traveling with is not actually my father? What if I explained the details of our situation? Common sense. Ha! Good luck with that, if anyone finds out the deal. I know I lost every last ounce of common sense the moment you stepped out of that box and said hello.”

  Anthony shrugged and moved forward in line. It was almost his turn to walk through the metal detector. The implications of what Julia had just said hit her all at once. She tugged frantically at his arm.

  “Come on,” she whispered, with rising panic. “Let’s get out of here. Flying was a dumb idea. We can rent a car. I’ll drive, and we’ll be in Montreal in six hours. We can talk along the way, I promise. It’s easier to talk in a car anyway.”

  “What’s gotten into you, dear?”

  “Don’t you get it?” she hissed into his ear. “You’ll get busted in two seconds. You’re full of electronics. The metal detectors will start shrieking the moment you step through; cops will tackle you, cuff you, search you, and run you through an X-ray head to toe, then take you apart to understand how you work!”

  Anthony just smiled and stepped toward the security officer. He opened his passport and unfolded a letter tucked inside the cover, which he then handed to the guard.

  After reading it over, the security officer asked Anthony to step aside while he summoned his supervisor, who promptly arrived and read the letter. From that point on, he treated Anthony with the utmost respect, letting him bypass the metal detector to be courteously patted down before continuing on his way.

  Julia, on the other hand, wasn’t spared the extensive security screening imposed on all the other passengers. She was forced to take off her shoes and belt. Her hair clip was confiscated because it was too long and pointy, as were a pair of fingernail clippers she had forgotten in her bag and a matching nail file that exceeded the acceptable length by a fraction of an inch. The supervisor lectured her for being so careless. Didn’t she see the screens along the way with the lists of prohibited items? Julia scoffed in response and said it would be shorter to list the things that were authorized. The officer’s tone shifted to that of a drill sergeant. He asked if she had a problem with the regulations. Julia hastily reassured him that she did not. Her flight took off in only forty-five minutes, and she didn’t have time for any further delays. She hurried off to claim her bag and join Anthony, who had been observing her from afar. He looked amused.

  “Someone’s feeling more smug than usual,” she said when she reached him. “How’d you get through so easily?”

  Anthony waved the letter in his hand, then handed it over to his daughter to read.

  “What? Since when do you have a pacemaker?”

  “I’ve had it for ten years.”

  “Why?”

  “I had a small heart attack. I wasn’t really given a choice in the matter.”

  “When was this?” Julia asked, a bit stunned.

  “If I told you it was on the anniversary of your mother’s death, it would only give you one more excuse to call me dramatic.”

  “Why didn’t anybody call me?”

  “Maybe because you were too busy living your life. And you had a new phone number. You never shared it with me.”

  “Nobody told me anything about this.”

  “As I said, we didn’t know how to reach you. Anyway, that’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it? For the first few months, I was infuriated about having to live off a device. The irony, of course, is that now I’m forced to live in a device. Shall we be off th
en? Don’t want to miss that plane,” said Anthony, looking up at the departures board and sighing as he located their flight. “Of course. A one-hour delay. Just once, for a flight to be on time . . . far too much to ask.”

  Julia took advantage of the extra time to nose around the airport bookstore. She peered at Anthony from behind a magazine rack, her father fully unaware. He was seated in the waiting area, facing the runways, and staring off into the distance. For the first time, Julia felt the ache and sting that meant she missed her father. She decided to call Stanley.

  “I’m at the airport,” she said in a low voice.

  “Are you getting ready for takeoff?” asked her friend, his voice barely audible.

  “Are you with somebody? Is this a bad time?”

  “I was about to ask you the same question.”

  “Of course not. I’m the one who called you!” Julia replied.

  “Well, then why are you whispering?”

  “I was whispering?” Julia cleared her throat and looked around, feeling a little foolish.

  “You know, you should really stop by my store more often. You’re a regular good-luck charm. I sold that eighteenth-century clock an hour after you left. It had been gathering dust up there for over two years.”

  “If it really was eighteenth century, another couple of months wouldn’t have made much of a difference.”

  “Goes to show you never can tell,” Stanley said, pausing for a moment before continuing. “I don’t know who you’re with, and I don’t care. But don’t treat me like an idiot who can’t tell when something is up. I hate that!”

  “It’s really not what you think. Have a little faith, will you?”

  “You can’t begin to imagine what I think.”

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  Stanley sighed. “Make the most of the next few days. Travel can do wonders for clearing your mind.”

  Stanley hung up before Julia could have the last word. He stared at the lifeless phone and muttered to himself, “I don’t care who he is, as long as he’s not some Canadian come to sweep you up north. It’s horribly dull here without you. I’m already bored out of my mind.”

  8.

  At 5:30 p.m., American Airlines flight 4742 touched ground at Montreal-Trudeau Airport. Julia and Anthony passed through customs without a hitch and found a driver waiting for them outside. Traffic was light, and half an hour later they were already going through the financial district. Anthony gestured toward a glimmering skyscraper across the way.

  “I remember watching that come up as it was built,” he said wistfully. “It’s the same age as you.”

  “Any particular reason you’re telling me this?”

  “You said you’re fond of this city, so I’m giving you something to remember. Someday, you’ll be walking around this neighborhood, and you’ll remember that your father spent a few months of his life working in that skyscraper. This street will seem less anonymous.”

  “Wonderful,” she said dryly.

  “Aren’t you going to ask what I did there?”

  “Business as usual, I suppose.”

  “Yes, and no. Back then, I was the proud owner of a little newsstand. You see, you weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth. That came later.”

  “Wow. Did you work there long?” Julia asked, taken aback.

  “Well, one day I had the idea of selling coffee, too. That’s when business really started picking up,” Anthony continued with a twinkle in his eye. “People would stagger into the lobby, frozen stiff from the harsh winter wind. You should have seen them throw themselves at me for coffee, hot chocolate, tea . . . I was charging twice the market price and making money hand over fist. Eventually, I added sandwiches to the menu. Your mother would get up at the crack of dawn to make them. The kitchen in our apartment became a regular sandwich factory.”

  “You and Mom lived in Montreal?”

  “Indeed. Surrounded by lettuce, cold cuts, and plastic wrap. When I started offering deliveries both to the offices above and to the building that had just sprung up next door, I had to bring on my first employee.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Your mother. She tended the newsstand while I made deliveries. She was so striking, people would come by four times a day just to steal a peek at her. God, we really had a ball back then. She had faces and preferences memorized, down to the last customer. The accountant from 1407, who had a little crush on her, got extra cheese, but the director of human resources on the eleventh really rubbed her the wrong way, and all he ever got was the dregs of the mustard jar and a sad little wilted leaf of lettuce.”

  Their car pulled up in front of the hotel, and they followed the bellboy to the front desk.

  “We don’t have a reservation,” Julia said, handing her passport to the receptionist.

  The man behind the desk nodded, but then furled his brow when he saw Julia’s name. He started plugging info into his computer.

  “Actually, you do have a reservation, ma’am. And a very nice one at that.”

  Julia just gaped at him. Anthony inched back with a guilty look on his face.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Walsh . . . Coverman,” the receptionist continued. “And unless I’m mistaken, it looks like you’re with us the entire week.”

  “You didn’t!” Julia whispered to her father, mortified. Anthony did a poor job of feigning innocence until the receptionist came to the rescue.

  “You have the, uh . . .” He stumbled over his words, seeming to notice all at once the age difference between the two. “Honeymoon suite.”

  “You could have at least picked a different hotel,” Julia growled at her father under her breath.

  “It was one of those package deals!” said Anthony, defending himself. “All inclusive. Surprise, surprise. Your future husband went the whole hog, airfare plus lodging. We’re lucky he didn’t choose the hotel meal plan. I promise it won’t cost him a thing. We’ll put it on my card. Though don’t thank me—everything that’s mine is now technically yours, so really I should be thanking you!” He chuckled.

  “That’s not the real problem.”

  “What is, then?”

  “Honeymoon suite?”

  “Not to worry. I checked with the travel agency about that as well. Two bedrooms linked by a sitting room. In the penthouse. I hope you haven’t developed a fear of heights.”

  As Julia continued to lecture her father, the concierge provided their room key and wished them a pleasant stay.

  As the bellboy escorted them toward the elevators, Julia turned and marched right back up to the receptionist.

  “It’s not what you think! He’s my father.”

  “But I didn’t think anything, ma’am,” he replied, embarrassed.

  “Oh, no, you thought something, all right. And it’s not true.” Julia’s cheeks were pink with embarrassment.

  “Mademoiselle, I assure you, I’ve seen it all,” he said, leaning over the counter so nobody would hear. “Your secret’s safe with me,” he said in a tone that was meant to be reassuring.

  Julia’s embarrassment quickly morphed into anger, and she was just about to spit a catty comeback when Anthony took her by the arm and forcefully steered her away from the front desk.

  “You worry far too much about what other people think.”

  “So what?”

  “Come on, the bellboy is holding the elevator doors open. We’re not the only guests in this hotel, you know.”

  The suite fit Anthony’s description to a tee. The bedrooms were separated by a sitting room, with windows looking out over the old city center. Julia barely had time to put her things down before a knock came at the door. A waiter stood outside in the hall, proudly presenting a room service cart with the full works: champagne on ice, two crystal flutes, and a box of chocolates.

  “What on earth is all this?” demanded Julia.

  “Compliments of the hotel, ma’am,” he replied. “It’s part of our honeymoon package.”

 
Julia gave him a withering look and picked up a card that had been delicately placed on the white linen tablecloth. The director of the hotel wished to express his sincere thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Walsh-Coverman for choosing the establishment to celebrate their union. The entire staff would be at their disposal to make their honeymoon unforgettable. Julia tore the card into little pieces, which she carefully put back on the cart, before slamming the door in the waiter’s face.

  “But, ma’am! It’s included in the price of your room!” she heard from the hall outside.

  Julia didn’t bother responding. The cart’s wheels creaked as it trundled back toward the elevator. Julia whipped open the door and strode over to the waiter. She snatched the box of chocolates and spun back around. The door of room 702 slammed shut a second time.

  “What was all that?” asked Anthony, coming out of his bedroom.

  “Nothing,” replied Julia, now seated calmly on a window ledge in the main space between the two bedrooms.

  “Quite the view, don’t you think?” her father said, as he gazed out at the Saint Lawrence River in the distance. “The weather is beautiful today. Would you care for a walk?”

  “Anything to get out of here.”

  “I’m not the one who chose the hotel,” her father retorted as he wrapped a cardigan around his daughter’s shoulders.

  With uneven cobblestones and quaint architecture, the streets of Old Montreal had an old-world charm to rival that of many European cities. Anthony and Julia began their walk at the Place d’Armes. Anthony took it upon himself to recount the biography of Montreal’s founder in painstaking detail as they stood at the feet of a statue portraying the historical figure above a small fountain. Julia yawned, leaving her father halfway through the tale to check out a candy vendor a few yards away.

  She returned with a bagful of sweets, which she offered to share with her father. Anthony rejected the sugary treats, half offended at her insolence and half out of pure disgust. Julia glanced back and forth between the bronze statue of Lord Maisonneuve high on his podium and her father with a mix of amusement and self-satisfaction.